Gift for yoshiwoo

Gift from ???

Title: fool you once (shame on me)

Pairing: 2jae

WC: 2638

Rating: PG-13

Warning: minimal swearing


Note: I worked really hard on including everything you liked. I hope you enjoy it! :3

Fool You Once (Shame On Me)

08.15.12

It’s common courtesy not to ask a women her age.

She’s never a day older than 25.

A similar courtesy runs between people in Youngjae’s business. One doesn’t exactly wake up and decide they want to become an underground agent. There’s no place to mark it when taking those profession surveys during grade school. One event led to another, and here Youngjae is, sitting in a room full of the most angerous and skilled people within a 200­mile radius of Mokpo. It’s ridiculous to think that he’s one of them.

But, again, here he is.

And that’s that.

The ceremony is over within ten minutes. An older gentleman with grey wisps slicked across a cranium of wrinkled, liver­spotted skin recites names in a monotone voice to the backdrop of a garbage truck rumbling loud and dominant outside of the cracked window. Youngjae listens intently for his name, and when he hears it he walks up to take the manila folder held out to him. It goes from one trembling hand to another.

There is no round of applause, no uncontrolled whopping, and no throwing of any type of hat. The small group of students file out in nothing less than a civil manner and go their separate ways. Youngjae makes his way to his own car with the folder clutched in his fingers and he gets in quickly, locking the doors for no concrete reason. He cracks open the folder with haste and spreads the contents on the passenger seat, leaning over the middle console to get a better look.

The first thing that catches his eye is a profile of a well­groomed and, dare he say, handsome young man (because that’s the normal human response, and Youngjae is one of those after all). He is heir to a famous name­brand shoe company that all of the “in” kids are either wearing or pining for. None of the information he skims through seems particularly worthy of expulsion until he reads the portion about belonging to some street gang and he has to suppress the desire to roll his eyes. Being the person he is and doing what he does, he doesn’t really have a right to be bothered with things like morals. He voluntarily sacrificed that a while ago.

His mission is standard, almost boringly so, as horrible as that sounds. It seems like a textbook scenario he had to study for an exam once. It’s such a waste to throw away his very first mission, his cherry­popping moment, on an assignment so...vanilla. It leaves a bad taste on his tongue as he drives out of the unmarked car park and onto the road.

Youngjae drives a while before reaching the interstate and accelerating a great deal, windows rolled down and crisp, wintery air pricking his unprotected face and neck. The orange packet that contains his new life stares unblinkingly at him through the rearview mirror. It can’t talk. Of course packets can’t talk. But, if they could, this one would probably curse Youngjae out for being such a terrible person. His mother sure did. He’s so desensitized to her screaming that he sometimes feels like the names she used to hurl at him. He was supposed to get all teary­eyed, hanging onto her arm and begging for forgiveness. His heart was supposed to rip in two hulking pieces of stone and sink into his gut and harden everything, slowly killing him with regret.

It didn’t, because he’s still alive.

He can’t say the same for his mother.

They say it was myocardial infarction­­something to do with plaque building up in the arteries. Doctor speak for ‘heart attack’. Youngjae figures it’s something closer to ‘heartache’, which is astronomically different, and no doubt has everything to do with him. The more he dwells on it, the harder it is to focus, so he stops dwelling on it and pours all of his excess energy into driving, free of all mental intrusion.

6:23pm

The apartment he steps into smells like newness. It’s in one of those modern buildings with adjustable light intensity and touch sensitive faucets in the kitchen and bathroom. Being from a small country niche on the outskirts of Mokpo, Youngjae takes a moment to touch everything. He fights the urge to slip on some latex gloves before he continues his little adventure; he has to constantly remind himself that this is his apartment and he can touch whatever he pleases whenever he pleases. No one will come for him for opening the fridge without executing proper measures.

It’s nearing dusk when Youngjae wraps up his sloppy inspection of the place. He’ll take the liberty of planting some bugs in and around his floor tomorrow. The only thing on his mind as he yawns and turns in for the night is that he has to iron the things he bought first thing in the morning. Beige slacks, a crisp, white shirt, and polished, black shoes that will surely give him blisters from being so stiff sit neatly in his closet when he gets in bed.

He tosses this way, flips that way, and sinks into innumerable positions before he flops onto his back with a heavy sigh, realizing at last that sleep is going to be hard earned.

It’s really not like him to let thoughts fester and clog his mind late at night. It’s not only poison to his concentration and gets in the way of his work, but it’s just plain not good for his health. It tempts him to ponder on things he has no business fussing around with. It makes his heart twist in ways it shouldn’t, duly thumping out of tune with emotions he’s disciplined into oppression.

At times like this, when he’s fruitlessly wrestling with the hot, fleshy part of him that constantly tries to pose a hindrance to his work, he wishes he really could just unplug and recharge, uninterrupted, like a drone.

It’s a shame that he doesn’t have that option, truly.

08.16.12

“You’re the new guy?” A heavy­set, pale, and bearded man stuffed into a suit two sizes too small leers over the rim of his steaming coffee cup at where Youngjae is sitting in a hard, uncomfortable chair, fiddling with his own paper cup filled with water he’s only taken a sip of, briefly.

“Yes,” Youngjae says.

“Wonder when they started hiring two­year olds,” the man grumbles bitterly, taking a hard sip of coffee, clearly irritated. “Must be another one of those damn initiatives. ing everybody over with real credentials, that’s all it is. Some people actually had to do graduate school and then more after that, blowing through all of their money and a whole bunch that was never theirs to begin with. We have debt up our and need these jobs just to pay it all back, and toddlers not too far from feeding on their momma’s teat waltz in here, fresh out of college, tags still on, and sweep up all of the worthwhile positions. I’ll tell you something, kid: initiatives are .”

He seems to be light­headed after having monologued himself into a breathless stupor, but it looks like he’s ready to go again, when another man enters the room. This is one is tall and slim with stubble creating a shadow across his hard jaw. The round, flushed man from before clamps his blabbering lips shut at his presence.

Youngjae wonders how long it takes to gain that much power. Even if there is a pecking order, and this man may not be at the very top, he certainly isn’t at the bottom either.

“Crying again, Huey­hyung?” he smirks, taking a green water bottle of something with lemons out of the fridge. Youngjae’s lips quirk for a second before he checks himself, wiping it away.

“It’s Woojin,” the first man huffs, offended. He stomps his way out while murmuring “for the thousandth time” under his breath.

“I’m Jihyun.” The man holds out his hand for a shake. Youngjae obliges him.

“Youngjae,” the young man says, smiling a bit.

“Well, Youngjae,” Jihyun begins, leaning back on the fridge with one hand occupied by his mystery beverage that includes lemon. Maybe it’s tea. “I promise we’re not all like Woojin. He’s perpetually bitter. Dude’s been working here for, like, ten years. Every six months the company sends out a mass email to the employees asking for nominations for Department Manager positions. He usually gets one vote, but only because it’s not prohibited to vote for yourself. Try not to take his butthurt rants to heart, okay?”

“I’ll try, hyung.”

“That’s the attitude, Youngjae.” Jihyun clamps a hand on Youngjae's shoulder. The younger does his best not to flinch. Contact isn’t his thing. It’s never been his thing. But it seems to be Jihyun’s thing. He’s an unexpected variable, but possibly a useful one. It would probably be best to get in his good graces. Youngjae smiles like he practiced, no teeth, just a slight quirk of his lips, bashful. Jihyun must eat it up. He shuffles Youngjae’s fringe and promises to visit him in at the reception desk when he can. Youngjae says he’d love that and he’ll drop by the Sales Department, although math and all things related gives him hives.

Jihyun really loves that.

Very important people in expensive shoes cluster in a circle for two minutes, all nodding and agreeing to do whatever it is important people do before disappearing into a presentation hall. This happens about every hour. It’s Youngjae’s job to smile, greet them, and buzz an Executive of Something to meet with them. He answers phone calls occasionally and plays errand boy, gracefully jogging down to the break room to fetch coffee and tea. He’s probably d about ten times. Some are more subtle than others. He supposes it’s part of his position as a subordinate. Rich men are very loud, so they like their toys quiet in order to feel in charge.

Youngjae does his duty.

08.22.16

It’s a relatively slow afternoon.

A Super Special Executive of Something just rushed into the presentation room, flapping his arms like a bird taking flight and speaking fast and urgent beneath his breath. But, that’s the most activity Youngjae’s seen thus far.

He’s really on the verge of nodding off.

That’s when another group of men step off of the platinum elevator, speaking in deep, even tones that all mesh into one long drone of nothingness. Youngjae sits up and fixes his shirt, flicking some fallen crumbs from his sandwich off the chest. He gears himself to put on his nicest, friendliest smile.

“Hello, Gentlemen,” Youngjae says sweetly. “Are you here for a meeting?”

Before Youngjae can further inquire, a smartly­dressed man steps away form the circle and approaches Youngjae’s desk confidently. Youngjae has seen his fair share of rich men in expensive suits over the past week or so; it shouldn’t faze him. However, this man sets himself apart from the rest just by how his pant crease is so sharp it cuts through the air, clearing space for his oozing influence, by the way his handkerchief is folded so neatly and fit in his jacket pocket, not too far to the left or right, and by the overwhelming surge of something indecipherable that rushes through his tingling veins and leaves his skin overheated and prickled with goosebumps.

A quick survey of his face makes everything fall into place.

This is Im Jaebum.

The man who must die.

“Im Jaebum. Executive Director of Sales. I’m clocking out the Board Room for a few hours. That’s all you need, right?”

And then he’s gone, leading a string of men down a hardwood laid hall that leads somewhere, apparently to this mysterious Board Room. Hell if Youngjae knows half of the places he sends people. The important part is that they do. His job is to get to Im Jaebum, and half of that battle is already fought.

8:34pm

Youngjae is preparing to get back to his apartment and draw out a plan. If the Heavens are on his side, he should have everything cleaned up within two months. Seeing as Jaebum is high­profile, he’ll have to tread lightly. That much he knows.

“You’re new,” a smooth voice full of timbre pulls Youngjae out of his abyss of thoughts, bringing his attention to the black shadow hanging over where’s leaned up against the fridge, plastic cup of water dangerously close to slipping out of his loose grip. Youngjae turns slowly.

It almost hurts to look at him. His dark, thick eyebrows are ridden high on his smooth forehead, intrigued, and his brown eyes are looking nowhere but Youngjae. He hates the way his stomach constricts.

“Yes, sir.” Youngjae nods seriously.

“Sir,” Jaebum tastes the word. “I’m not usually one for formalities, especially with pretty boys like yourself. But it sounds so lovely when you say it. I’ll let it go this time. Call me hyung. Can you say ‘hyung’?”

“Hyung,” Youngjae says, letting a smile slip.

“Yeah.” Jaebum smirks. “Just like that.”

09.23.12

It’s almost too easy the way Jaebum tucks Youngjae under his overbearing wing, dubbing him his ‘baby boy’ and showering him with affection and time. He really hadn’t pegged the man for being so simple­minded and easily influenced. He can’t say it isn’t convenient, though. Just a little unexpected.

As sweet as Jaebum is on him, he’s a little eager to complete the job. The things Jaebum makes him feel surely him up in ways he can’t afford.

The way he coddles him like he’s a porcelain angel who needs to be protected from the big, bad world outside, his strong, sturdy arms that never promises anything short of warmth and affection, and his eyes that are constantly begging him not to leave. At times, he considers hinting at Jaebum to hop on a plane and lay low in another country until the call for his death expires. Sometimes that happens. Sure, it isn’t often.

But, it happens sometimes.

Youngjae’s just afraid Jaebum is too dense to get it.

It’s a shame, truly.

02.04.13

Youngjae isn’t one for journal­keeping. It’s something that he’s gotten used to, however, because his work demands it. A database is kept somewhere. Youngjae has to report to whomever works it. He doesn’t know any names, and they don’t know his. As for as the young man is concerned, his or her name is 172.16.81.100, a short collection of numbers separated by a few periods. It’s comfortable and neat that way.

Youngjae is mandated to send a funky looking note of numbers and letters only a practiced expert has the know­how to decode. Even transcribing the note from a book, Youngjae doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do it freehand. He keeps a journal that he locks in a safe place to list the specifics.

Youngjae could go in circles, stringing together eloquent sentences heavily injected with dense imagery and tidy, proper prose.

He could also do it the short and sweet way: Jaebum is dead, or on his way there.

Soon the monoxide spilling from his lit fireplace will accumulate and become trapped, suffocating him silently and cleanly in his sleep. He’ll be remembered as a civil man who went nobly. This is Youngjae’s own rebellion. The young agent killed him just how gentlemen are destined to be killed, wrapped in fine linens, behind closed doors, and by someone they hopefully loved, or at least grew deeply fond of.

Youngjae may not remember the next, the one after that, or his very last assignment. But he may remember the gentlemen who liked his fast and hard, his cigars ripe, and his boys sugary­sweet.